


Watch Your Hands

by WeeWinchesterBeastie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dean perspective, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Porn With Plot, Sam perspective, Sibling Love, Wincest - Freeform, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeWinchesterBeastie/pseuds/WeeWinchesterBeastie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things have been tense lately, and it's all about to come to a head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch Your Hands

“Damnit Sam, watch your hands!”

“Sorry,” he says, bobbing that stupid hair out of his eyes and, yeah, _now_ he’s paying some goddamn attention to what’s left of the skin over my ribs. Jesus. You’d think it was his first time patching up a wound the way he’s making such a mess of the job. So I give him my best _whatthefuckiswrongwithyou_ look and take a long pull off the whiskey bottle. It’s almost empty and that’s going to be a goddamn problem for me. Yes it is.

An epic fuck up on tonight’s hunt and I can’t even blame it all on Sam. And of course that’s pissing me right the hell off because I’m not the guy that lets the little stuff get past him. But lately it’s like there’s something in the goddamn water ‘cause I swear we’re both all over the place, making stupid mistakes and getting our asses handed to us and I need to snap right the fuck out of whatever the hell this is, because it’s gonna get us fuckin killed and then I’ll _really_ be pissed.

Sam cuts the thread and finally stops making a massacre of my stitches. I’ve had wounds way worse and at least the whiskey’s doing what it’s supposed to, but now he’s fussing over the bandage, making a mess with the tape, and it’s just more than I can take right now.

“Sam, what the hell is wrong with you?!” I bark, and he almost drops the tape. He pushes air through his lips in that way he does when he’s super pissed and about to go right off the edge into an epic bitch-fest. But instead he just shoves about a weeks worth of tension into his shoulders and gets a clean strip of tape off the roll.

His lip twitches and now I can see that he’s gonna bypass the bitch-fest and go straight to the soppy-eyed guilt wallow.

“I screwed up tonight,” he says.

Yeah, no kidding. But we both did, so I’ve gotta give the kid a break—even if he has apparently forgotten how to tape a bandage on properly. Jesus, his fingers are practically vibrating he’s so on edge.

“It’s fine, Sam. We made it out the other end. Don’t get all _Lifetime Confessions_ about it, ok?”

“Dean, you got a chunk taken out of your side tonight because I couldn’t get a simple banishing ritual right.”

“Yeah, and that’s why you’re gonna go get me pie and restock the goddamn liquor cabinet. Pronto!”

He sighs his _no you don’t understand, I am a martyr and must flog myself for my sins_ sigh and starts fumbling with the antiseptic.

“You’ve got a bunch of cuts,” he says, pulling his chair closer. “Lean forward.”

“I love it when you take charge Sammy,” I say, ‘cause he’s pissing me off again by making so much out of what happened out there. He’s acting so frigging guilty, and it’s just making me feel worse because the whole thing started wrong on my fuck up, and that makes me angry, and now _I’ve_ gotta deal with his sad puppy dog eyes while I just want to drink and forget this whole stupid night.  

Want to forget how lately there’s been this thing between us that shows up unannounced in the silences and stares at me with a smug look on its face. That pulls the strings in my chest during that hazy moment between being awake and my brain actually driving my goddamn body.

I want to get my hands on that thing and smash it back into the deep dark black of my brain or my gut or wherever the hell it decided to crawl out of.

‘Cause I just got the kid back from that goddamn normal life he ran out on me for. And I get it. I do. Who the hell would want to live this life if they didn’t have to? But now he’s back, and the nightmares about Jess have finally stopped and it seems like maybe we can actually do it. Actually live this life together. Dad’s AWOL, but hey, what the hell is really new about that anyways?

Really, it’s always been just me and him.

For the whole four years he was off in douchey nerd land, it’s like I’d wake up with this panicked feeling in my chest, just for a moment, ‘cause for almost as long as I can remember, the kid was my responsibility. And some days it felt like the only thing I could do right. The way Sam would look to me when he was unsure, or sad, or scared. Not to Dad. Me. Just that one moment. And I’d know that nothing would ever mean more to me than keeping that kid safe.

I’d know just how much of me was him. 

And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let the fucked up shit that rattles around in my sick brain drive him away. I’ve gotta lock this shit down and pull myself together. Because this last week I swear it’s like Sam knows what’s hiding in the darkness of my thoughts. I’ll catch him looking at me with this strange, tight expression on his face, different than his usual moody bitch face, or his brooding sad face. And then you can tell he’s noticed that I’ve noticed and he looks away all nervous and antsy and buries himself in dad’s goddamn journal for the millionth time.

Sam leans a little closer and I can feel his breath on my shoulder as he dabs at the cut between my shoulder blades. It stings, but it’s nothing to the slow throb on my ribs, so I take another swig of whiskey and reach for the tv remote, because I’m tired of this frigging silence eating up my brain. But my fingers freeze on the remote because Sam’s fingers have gone still on my back. He’s not poking at me with that goddamn cotton swab anymore, he’s just got his giant sasquatch paw resting on my skin, and then his fingers just barely graze over my spine, just the tips, and I hear him take a quick breath, or maybe that’s me, I don’t know, but it doesn’t fucking matter because my cock goes instantly hard and the only way I can cope with that is to grab two fistfuls of his shirt and shove him back as hard as I fucking can.

He goes sprawling backwards and lands in a heap on the ground, the chair clattering down beside him, and I think I catch a glimpse of his face, and some part of my brain tells me that he looks kind of like his world just ended, but I can’t fucking think because my GODDAMN cock is still throbbing and my heart is racing and I have to get the fuck out of here before he notices.

I’m out the door and thank god I already have the keys in my pocket because I don’t even have enough in me to stop and grab my shirt before I slam out into the night and, _fuck_ , I can still feel the heat of Sam’s fingers on my skin. And now I know for sure that when he did that this sort of choked sound came out of my mouth and _holy_ _fuck_ what the hell am I going to do now?

I’m in the car and flooring the gas down the road and all I can see is Sam’s face as he hits the floor. I can’t shake the feeling that—

It couldn’t have gone down like that. There’s no way that he actually wants—

I slam on the brakes and throw myself out onto the side of the road, out into the ditch. And yeah, there’s a tree over there that’ll do just fine. It’ll do just fine to catch my fist and take every bit of _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_

Tree bark splinters and there’s the white heat of my knuckles exploding, puffing up twice their size almost instantly, and yeah, that’s exactly what I want right now because it’s better than thinking about how when my brother touched me, that dark smug thing I’ve been avoiding for the last ten years raised its ugly head and howled.

And every part of my body sat up and howled too.

**

I’m on the floor where Dean threw me, and I have this sickening sense that my whole life has been leading to this moment, to Dean finally seeing me for what I am. I’ve been trying to fight it for too long. More years than I can pin down. I was bound to slip up eventually.

Except I didn’t slip up tonight. I made a choice.

I looked down the barrel of that moment and decided to force the point, once and for all. Because I couldn’t live with the in between anymore. I had to know. Know if I belonged here, if I _could_ belong here. Because I never have, not really. I didn’t belong when we were kids. Butting heads with dad, pressing for the truth before anyone wanted to give it to me, pressing to be let in after I did know the truth, but always coming up short against orders, against rules, against the hard cold edge of dad’s love, dad’s need to keep us alive but not living.

I never quite knew what to expect from Dad, from our life, from school. But all my life, Dean was the solid footing I could catch myself on. It wasn’t always pretty, but I knew he was there, like oxygen, like gravity, and I knew there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep me whole.

And then, sometime, somewhere, things began to change.

I began to understand just how big a freak I was. Kids at school were getting crushes on each other. And me? I was thinking about my big brother. Noticing things. All the wrong things. And all I could think was if he ever found out, I’d lose that place where I belonged, that place in his eyes when he looked at me and I felt safe and seen and right. He wouldn’t look at me like that anymore if he knew. And of course, as soon as I realized that, I knew I already didn’t belong—never could. I was a fraud. So I ran. Ran from my brother, ran from what I wanted from him.

I tried to fit myself into normal, tried to forget him.

It never really worked. Almost, but not quite. Jess…god I loved Jess. So much. And in the dark with her lying next to me I’d try to tell myself that she made me real—when she looked in my eyes she saw everything that was best in me. But that was a lie too, because how could she not see everything I was hiding? A million lies, a thousand truths glossed over, all to be normal. Trying to be the person I wished I could be. And she loved that person, and I loved her for it—I loved her for believing that lie.

But I’m laying here on the floor, Dean’s touch still burning on my chest where he shoved me, the feel of his spine still tingling under my fingertips, and I know that only one person’s ever really seen me. Seen the worst of me, seen the weakest of me. Kicked my ass for it, walked out in anger for it. But always came back. Always had my back.

But this time—

I see his face contorted with fear and anger, shoving me back, throwing me away like the piece of twisted filth I really am. And all because I couldn’t keep it together—I had to test the weak spot, had to pry up the darkness. I almost lost him tonight and as I stitched his bloody flesh together, felt him clench and hiss beneath my fingers, it felt like I _had_ to do something, had to get closer than ever before. He’s been my whole world for so long and running away didn’t help, and now it’s just him and me and death around every corner, and I got hypnotized by his damn skin, by the hitch in his breath, the clenched line of his jaw. 

But how will I face him now? ‘Cause he’ll come back. He always comes back. But he’ll look at me different—like I’m something sick and wrong. And I am.

I can feel it—something that makes me different, that makes me _wrong_. And I’d rip it out if I knew how but I don’t and I don’t know how to fix it, fix this thing between us that I’ve just fucked to oblivion—

I grab a chair and hurl it across the room. The dresser mirror shatters, bright and jagged clinking, but it’s not enough. I need to wreck the world. I need to tear everything down.

The tv smashes.

_I’m a freak_

The lamps explode.

_I’m a freak_

The table goes flying.

_I’m a freak_

Glass crunches and wood splinters and I tear it all apart howling at the top of my lungs because I’ve just lost everything. _Everything_ a person can lose. And I don’t know how I’m going to go on now.

**

When I finally head back to the motel—after a stop at the nearest liquor mart, and hell yes I’m driving half drunk, it’s sort of the least of my friggin sins right now—all I can think about is that he’s not going to be there when I get back. He’ll have packed up his giant tree-sized clothes, his stupid fruity conditioner, and the true love of his life—that friggin laptop—and he’ll be gone.

And I’ll be alone again.

And this time it’ll be for good. Because he hasn’t needed me in a very long time. And now, after what just happened…

He’ll leave and never look back.

The room is dark through the window when I get out of the car, and goddamn if there isn’t a stupid dumbass part of me that hopes that’s because Sam’s just sprawled asleep on his bed, and this whole thing was just some fucked up delusion in my head.

I open the door and for a moment I’m just standing there on the damn threshold, holding my breath and trying to sense if the room is empty or not. And then since apparently I’m not Yoda I decide to go for the light switch—yeah, definitely half-drunk—and nothing happens. No light.

I step further into the room and glass crunches underfoot. I throw the curtains wide to get more light from the one streetlamp and my heart kicks up into high gear again because the room is fuckin trashed.

And then I see him. He’s just sitting there on the floor between the beds, broken glass and clothes and seven kinds of random crap all around him, and he’s got one leg lolled out on the floor, and the other bent up to his chest, and his head’s leaning forward like a broken doll.

“SAMMY!” I bellow.

When I grab him he falls forward against me, and his hands grab at my chest. And I swear my friggin heart starts beating again, because for a moment there it just completely forgot to do normal shit like pump blood through my body. “Sammy, you okay?” I say, checking him for wounds, for something that will explain why he’s just sitting there like he can’t move.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Sammy, what happened?” He’s staring at me with his face all screwed up like it sometimes got when we were kids and Dad would yell at him for something dumb. He’d turn his baby bitch face on Dad, but then later when it was just the two of us he’d be fighting back tears and trying not to let me see.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his hand clutching at my shoulder. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sorry Dean.”

“Sam, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” I say, and I’m kind of holding his head up with my hand on his jaw because he’s so wrecked he doesn’t seem to be able to hold up his own body. “Why are you sorry?”

“I freaked you out,” he says, and his face is wet with tears and I don’t know why. I just know I need to fix it. “I didn’t mean to,” he says.

“Didn’t mean to what, Sammy?”

His face scrunches again, and my chest does the same, damnit, and he gives me this pleading kind of look and then he lets his head fall down so all that floppy hair is covering his face. “Touch you,” he says, very quietly.

Fuck. My head is reeling and I’m trying to wrap my brain around what’s going on. Because yeah, he did touch me. But I’m the sick freak getting hard over it. ‘Cause I’m clearly fucked in the head. And whatever it was that Sammy was actually doing—checking for more cuts, feeling for bruises, it had to be something—it couldn’t have been anything that he needs to apologize for. I had to have been misreading that whole thing.  

But he’s grabbing at my shoulder and just mumbling over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

And then he leans forward and kisses me.

Everything in my brain and body goes white hot nuclear, completely non-functioning in a moment of total _whatthefuck_ —

And then I’m kissing him back, my hand gripping the back of his neck, my other hand fisted in his shirt. He crushes me to him with one of those big paws of his and I’m half kneeling half sitting on his leg, and oh my fucking god his cock is rock hard. I hear this groan fall between us and realize it came out of my mouth, and then I’m just trying to catch my breath because holy fuck what are we doing?

“Sam,” and no, damnit, no I don’t gasp when I say it. Fuck. “Sam, what—“

“Shut up,” he says in this broken sort of voice that makes my cock even harder. And what the fuck have I done to my little brother? How did I fuck him up like this? This has got to be my fault—my sick vibes got in his head, fucked with his sanity, because there’s just no way, _no way_ that my brother who blushes at the mention of porn actually wants to—

He presses his hand down onto my cock and another one of those sickening groans spills out of my throat. He rubs his fingers over the head through my jeans and a bunch of stuff is just pouring out of my mouth without my goddamn permission. “Oh god, Sammy, fuck—“

“Do you like that?” he asks into my ear, and it doesn’t sound like some cheesy porn line. It sounds like he’s asking _Do you love me?_

“Yeah,” I say, my voice choked as hell. “Yeah, Sammy, but you don’t need to do this. If I ever made you feel—I didn’t mean to—“

“Dean, shut up,” he says again, and this time he sounds pissed. He grabs me by the arms and before I know what’s happening the big sasquatch has thrown me back on the bed. My stitches light up like fire but the next moment I don’t give a fuck because Sam has ripped my zipper open and now he’s got my rock hard dick in his hand. And, oh, fuck me, are those big yeti hands a good fit on my cock. And the look in his eyes as he stares down at me, my cock in his hands, it makes everything inside me light up and go off like fireworks or landmines, and then he’s crushing down on top of me, jacking me with one hand while he feeds himself on my lips and tongue.

And this is getting so far out of hand. Because I’m Dean Winchester, goddamnit. I don’t go to pieces when I get kissed. That shit is for amateurs. _I_ do the kissing, _I_ make people go to pieces. But it’s so fucking hard to think when Sam’s thumb is sliding precum around the head of my cock while his tongue slips around my mouth like it’s his own damn personal playground.

It’s time to level the playing field.

I get his cock in my hands, and holy shit—well, yeah, what else would you expect from that giant yeti, I guess—and he fucking cries out my name when I start jerking him, and yeah baby, that’s more fucking like it. That’s how it’s supposed to go.

**

Dean grabs my cock and it’s as if more years than I even know sink back down into just now, just this moment, my big brother’s hand driving me by my dick and making me cry his name like a confession.

Like it’s the only thing that matters.

And it is. His name is the one I’ve been running to and running from for as long as I can remember. And now, god, I’ve got him under me, pinned against the bed and I’m taking his lips by force, taking what I want from him, what I’ve wanted for so long, what I’ve been afraid of for so long. And his hand is passing over and around my cock, milking me stupid and trembling, so all I want to do is kiss him deeper, harder, find what makes him tick, what makes him _him_ , feed on it, wrap myself in it and make it howl.

My legs are going beneath me, and I can’t catch my breath, can’t stop the earthquake in my chest. So I push his hand off my cock and he catches his breath in this jagged sound of disappointment, and that just makes me want him all the more. I pin his wrists above his head and for a moment he fights me, but yeah, big brother, I’m the one who’s going to win this wrestling match, not you. Got big while I was running from you—from myself—got strong, but not strong enough to resist you. Fuck. Never going to be strong enough for that.

I shove his hands down into the pillow and grind my hips down into his, and our cocks touch and we both cry out. Dean bucks his hips up against me and says “oh god, baby,” and something erupts in my chest to hear him call me that, something burns through me like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear him say those words while his eyes stare up at me like he can’t get enough.

And I want to hear him say more.

I want to make him scream my name and cling to me, make him shake and moan and quiver and give up that smooth in-command _I know what’s best_ façade, fuck it right out of him and leave him gasping and open and totally exposed.

I crush my lips into his and trap his tongue, sucking it while I grind against his cock that feels so hard, so hot. I bite his lip and he groans, tries to pull away, so I take one of my hands off his wrists, because I really only need one to hold them—that’s right Dean, little brother owns you now—and I put my hand over his throat, over his jaw, hold him still, take my time sucking and biting on his lip, take my time rutting against his cock.

**

The bastard’s got me pinned to the bed with his freakishly long limbs, and what really pisses me off is that I like it. Scratch that. I fucking love it. Love the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense as he holds me down, love the way his hand presses into my wrists. Really love the way his cock feels against mine. But what makes my breath rattle in my throat is this feeling that I’ve lost control of the whole fucking thing. There’s a gasping, groaning wall of Sam above me and I’m lost in his breath, in the movement of his hips, in the feel of his hand as it scrabbles at my chest, my neck, my face. I’m caught in this whirlwind and it’s taking me up and gone and _fuck_ I need him to put his lips on my cock, to feel him all around me. And—

 _Fuck that_.

I hook my leg under his and heave, and _ha_ , take that you fuckin yeti, bet you didn’t think I could pull that off with your big sasquatch ass holding me down.

Now I’m on top, and I’m fuckin mad. Cocksucker thinks he’s going to make me lose control, make _me_ scream for him.

I’ve _been_ screaming for you, you bastard. Four years. For four years I’ve been silently screaming into the void that I need my little brother back. I need the piece of me that makes me fit together into a whole person.

And he just walked out that fucking door and took it. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t rip my heart in half. And I had to live off the scraps of memories and the grim approval of Dad, just a soldier in a never-ending war, walking wounded without my fucking _heart_.

“Damn you, you fucking bastard,” I growl, and I think I really scare him for a moment, because he goes still under me, his eyes big and his chest hitching up in a stutter. I grab a fistful of his shirt and glare down at him, and I don’t even care that there’s tears leaking out my eyes. And he’s just staring up at me like he’s not sure if I’m going to kill him or kiss him. I snap with my fist and fabric tears, buttons break. I press my hands down on his bare skin and scrape over the lines of his chest, like I can figure out what he’s made of if I just press hard enough. Figure out if my heart is still caught somewhere deep inside him. Because I don’t think I’ve got it back yet.

“Dean,” he whispers, and something breaks inside me. I rip his jeans down, rip everything off him.

“Don’t move,” I growl. And he doesn’t.

I step onto the floor and just stand over him for a moment, staring down into his eyes. Then I push my jeans down, slowly, watching him the whole time. His chest heaves and stutters, but he doesn’t move. I hold one hand out, over his chest, and just barely let my fingers graze his heart. His cock jumps and he groans.

“Shut up!” I say. I’m over him, straddling his chest in an instant, my hand at his jaw. I hold my lips an inch away from his, and he tries to lean up, tries to catch my lips with his own, but I push him back down. “You stay,” I warn. I slide down his length, not touching, just ghosting over him, until my lips are over his cock. I let my tongue glide the slit and he gasps, “ _fuck_ ,” his hips jerking. I slam his hips back down and give him a look of warning.

_Lets try this again._

I lick precum from his slit and he starts breathing like he’s going to hyperventilate, but he keeps his hips still this time.

_Good boy._

I glide my tongue down the length of his shaft and his cock twitches. I laugh deep and low at the sight.

_I own you Sammy. Gonna make you say it._

I look up at him, and then in one smooth motion I take all of his length into my mouth. His head tips back and this long “ _oohhhh_ ” breathes out of him, and then he’s staring back down at me, breath coming in ragged bursts as I wrap my lips around him and start working him with my tongue. He’s a fucking mouthful and I’m gonna make every inch scream. He gets even harder under my tongue and I smile around his shaft, smile as his hips shake under my hands. I loosen my grip a bit and let him rock against my tongue, let him find my rhythm. A rhythm built of _that’s right Sammy, you like that Sammy, you like the way I suck your cock, you like the way I make you hard?_

His hands come down into my hair, and I almost lose it, but fuck you asshole, you’re not going to knock me off my game. Gonna make you scream. His fingers knead through my hair, my scalp, and he’s moaning, his fingers clenching and grabbing, like they’re speaking for him, speaking everything he can’t say because he’s nothing but a bunch of breathless gasps and cries.

“Please, Dean, please—“

I suck harder, and my cock is throbbing so hard but there’s something I want more right now than getting off. I want to make him say it.

I lean on one arm and slide my fingers down his balls and into the cleft of his ass and his cock goes hard as iron. I let it fall all hot and swollen from my mouth and look up at him. I drill him with my eyes and rub my fingers up and down his ass, and he watches me, mouth forming wordless sounds. I press my finger against his opening and swirl gently.

“Fuuuuck,” he says.

I lick his cock and watch it twitch. I laugh and circle my finger some more, sucking gently on just the tip.

“Oh, god, Dean please—“

“Please what?” I say, and my voice is so low I almost don’t recognize it.

I slow drive my finger in all the way and this amazing sound comes out of him that makes the hole in my chest feel a little bit better, but not enough. He’s rocking against my finger, and as I pull back out and circle his opening he cries my name again. I press two fingers against him and take the head of his cock between my lips. I circle my tongue as I press the fingers against him, and he bucks down onto them and takes them all at once like the greedy little bastard he is. Taking all I have to give. And I can’t do anything but give it. I’m fucking him with my fingers and feeding on his cock and he’s saying my name over and over and the hole in my chest is still gaping wide open. He’s bucking with my rhythm, a rhythm built of _fuck Sammy, how the hell could you leave me, don’t you know I need you, don’t you know I don’t matter without you?_  

“Please Dean, please—“

_please what_

“Please Dean, need—“

_need what_

“—need you,” he gasps, his fingers clutching at my head, my shoulders. And I crook my fingers inside him and take his cock as deep as I can, and his whole body starts to shake under me, like if I wasn’t on top of him he might go to pieces. And then I’m drinking him down while his body clenches tight around my fingers and he groans so sweet and loud and long and I’m full of Sammy, full of the taste of him. His fingers are trembling, pulling at me, and I slide my fingers from him, let him fall from my mouth and let him pull me up to him. He catches my lips in his and crushes me against him like he’s drowning, and he licks the last of his taste out of my mouth, his fingers gripping my skin.

And now I’m the one shaking, I’m the one clutching him like he’s my last lifeline. And my cock is throbbing hard, just need to be inside him, need to be whole again. And he kisses me and says, “Dean, I love you.”

My cock is pressed tight against him, and then he shifts and my whole world goes nuclear because the precum-slicked head of my cock just slipped inside him, and I’m shivering and moaning and I don’t wanna hurt him, but I need to bury myself in him, need to find myself again.

And then he grabs my hips and presses me down into him and there’s just tight hot silk around my cock.

“Sammy, baby, oh god—“ I’m buried to the balls and my face is pressed into his neck and I’m living off the dark throaty sounds that are coming from him. I’m moving in him—slow because I don’t think I can handle any more—my hands fisted in the sheets on either side of him. “Fuck, Sammy, so good, so fucking good, Sammy, god.”

I’m going faster now, caught on a rhythm I don’t even have words for, and he’s breathing hard, his hands locked on my arms, breathing when I breathe, moving when I move. And I look into those eyes that always used to look to me, and I say, “Stay with me, Sammy. Stay with me, please.” His fingers grip me tighter, and he nods his head like he’s in another world, like the motion is almost more than he can take right now. “Sammy please, ” my voice is so ragged I fuckin hate myself, but I can’t help it. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here Dean,” he says, gripping the back of my neck. “I’m here.” He pulls my head down and catches my tongue in his mouth like he’ll die if he doesn’t, and I feel like I could drown in him, lose every little thing that was ever me in the sweet hot places inside him. And god do I want to. I can feel it building inside me like slow fire, fire that sparks where the two of us meet. “SAMMY!” I cry, and feel myself dissolve inside him, dissolve into nothing but waves of _ohmygodyesgodyesssSammy_. And he cries out too, holds me hard against him, murmurs “yeah baby, oh god, love you Dean,” into my ear.

And when the pieces of myself come back together, reform themselves into something made of fire and blood and all the years between us, I catch my breath, cradled on his chest, his hands in my hair and on my back, and I realize that I’ve come back together whole.

I can hear his heart and mine, and I feel whole.

“I love you Sammy,” I whisper.

His arms tighten around me, his lips brush my forehead. “I love you too, Dean,” he says.

And I hope this time he’ll stay.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://weewinchesterbeastie.tumblr.com/)


End file.
